Bring Me Chocolate Biscuits, Please
by Lunar Iris
Summary: Through a cruel twist of fate, England is turned into a woman and must suffer through a monthly cycle: PMS, menses and all that goes along with it. How much help can America be? And, whose fault is this anyway? Rated T for themes and some language. De-anon from the kink meme.
1. 1 - Turn and Face the Strange

Here is another de-anon-ed fic from the kink meme. I'm including the original request so you know what you're getting into before you start reading, because it might be delicate and/or controversial subject matter for some.

Request: "Via some cruel twist of fate England has been turned into a woman. What I want to see is fem!England having really bad PMS to the point she(he?) feels physically nauseated and sick. America, never having to really deal with these issues before freaks out trying to make it better.

Bonus: Moodswings(clingy, upset, pissed off)  
Bonusx2: England throws up on America (feel free to ignore this entirely if its not your thing)"

A lot of women have very differing symptoms when it comes to their monthly cycle and I could only write on what I suffer through (which includes some rather extreme symptoms), and what I talk about with my family and girl friends. I will include individual warnings at the beginnings of each chapter if needed, because I really like all my readers, and don't want people reading anything they aren't comfortable with reading. So, you will be dually warned. And, I don't want flames for not informing readers about some of this stuff: blood and such. There will still be some things left as surprises, so don't worry that I'll give everything away.

I think this is going to stay at a T rating, but if I come across something stronger than that in the process of editing that I had forgotten-it's been a while since I posted this to the Hetalia kink meme-I will make a notice about the rating change a chapter or two before I have that material up. However, I don't think that's going to be an issue.

Disclaimer for the story: I do not own Hetalia.

* * *

**Bring Me Chocolate Biscuits, Please**

**Chapter 1 - Turn and Face the Strange**

"Ouch!" England's hip collides into a bookcase, tripping over the cuffs of his pajamas in his rush to cease the incessant ringing of his mobile phone – the sixth call in half an hour, from America most likely. He had tried to ignore it at three o'clock in the morning, as he had tried to ignore the knocking that joined it five minutes ago. Just as he thinks he sees the illusive mobile on far end of the room, near the bay window, the ringing ceases, leaving the room in darkness. He tries to locate it by the faint luminescence of the charger's light and stumbles as he rights himself, feeling his center of gravity wobble—he should be fast asleep and the air feels thick. He bunches up the waistband of his pajamas in his hand—why is that necessary?—and plops down in the window seat, instead of sinking down into it as usual.

"What is it, prat?" He huffs, voice husky from sleep, yet oddly squeaky. Maybe a cold? He clears it with a thick swallow.

"What's the matter with you, Artie? You sick? Your voice sounds-"

"What!? It's," England checks the time on his mobile, "it's three thirty in the morning on the bleeding weekend! Why're you even calling me?"

"Let me in?"

"Give me one, good reason I should? I should still be asleep in m'bed, you boor."

"Please, y-"

"You tack on 'please,' but I still see no reason I shouldn't leave y'out in the cold." He tucks his knees underneath him, because it feel strangely uncomfortable the way they dangle off the side with only his toes touching the floor. England sniffles, the pain in his hip still smarts, and he rubs at it

"Really…do you have a cold, Artie? Did you forg-"

"Don' call me that! Why're you here?"

"How can you ask me that?!"

England starts at the genuine chagrin in America's voice. "You! You're! What?! Ugh! You aren't being very convincing. You aren't even making sense." He won't be getting much sleep tonight.

"Wait, Arthur! Wait!" He's pouting now, too, no doubt. "I did ask you to pick me up. I know I did. We had a conversation about it day before yesterday and everything!"

That couldn't be right. "But that's tomorrow!" England knows he can be absentminded, but rarely so badly.

"Today is tomorrow! I mean tomorrow is. Check the date!"

"Fine!" He is in no mood to check the date; however, he'll just let the idiot in and be done with it. "Just dandy. I'll be right down." He ends the inane conversation, and tosses the phone onto the window seat. Not bothering to turn on any lights in his bedroom or the hallway, he stomps off to let America inside. He sighs and steps down the first step, only to miss it, and grapples at the banister with a yelp.

"England!" America calls from the outside and bangs on the door.

He rights himself, and goes down another step, slowly reaching the midpoint landing, and turns. England hastens his descent, driven insane by the impatient knocking, and misses the next step. How strange to have forgotten the height of steps he has climbed up and down for decades—centuries? England adjusts his steps, bending his knees, stretching his legs down as he knows he always does and misses the next step as well, tumbling down the remaining five with a wail. His head and shoulder collide with the last banister rail, the really large ornate one, as America storms through the front door.

"England!?"

At least he didn't shoulder the door open; he must have found the spare key in the time it took to estimate the steps. England laughs without understanding, and his vision peppers with light. The sensation of his laughter hurts and dark spots grow to fill his vision.

* * *

The next thing England knows, he is on his back on the sofa and America is staring down at him.

"What the hell happened?" America eyes, uncharacteristically wide, bore into him, sharp with suspicion and distrust, as though this is a new Cold War and he is Russia. The thought is distressing.

"You woke me from a rather peaceful sleep." He dully indulges America this game.

Eyes narrow, mouth taught, this is not their usual stare down—playful, rarely serious, even when accompanied with shouting. America now is silent. A silent America is scary.

"Don't look at me like that. All I know is that my head hurts and I should still be in bed." England glances over at his grandfather clock in the far corner of the room just as it chimes four o'clock; the force of the sound, usually soothing, draws him in on himself, knees to chest. Curling his arms over his head, he hides his face into the fabric of the sofa. "Nng!" The chimes echo through his skull.

He can feel America twitch closer, in instinct to comfort perhaps, but the movement stops short. America doesn't touch him.

"Huh?" He glances at the hand fixed in the air, hovering over his shoulder, and watches it recoil in slow-motion.

The cold stare remains. "Who are you?"

"What are you sa-"

"Why are you here?"

"Why? What? I-I…" He swallows words that will not come.

His hands twitch. America grabs his shoulders and shakes.

"England," he whispers, grasping what he can of America's words and speaking almost mindlessly.

"Where is England?" Each word is punctuated with a firm shake.

"Ow! Stop it! Do you have a screw loose? Let go, you twit! I'm right here!" he screams, and wriggles out of the grip.

"Are you one of England's mystical invisible voodoo creatures that finally decided to let me see you? Why play tricks on me? What happened to England?! What did you do to him?"

"Voodoo creatures!?" England's eyes narrow, and the last remnants of concussion clear from his mind. "Now see here! They are faeries, Alfred! Faeries, you ponce! I have introduced you to Mint! And lower your voice immediately or see yourself back out into the cold."

Suddenly, America looks cornered, stuck between his previous disbelief and acceptance of fact, and England jumps on it.

"I most certainly am, England. I don't know why you can't see what's plainly in front of your face, and I don't know why you're insulting me in the wee hours of Saturday morning." England crosses his arms, and fiddles with them to get them flush against his chest. "If you don't stop staring at me like that, I'll leave you here to collect flies in your mouth."

"E-England?" They both blink. America voice sounds small, like when he was a colony.

If he wasn't so mad he would hug the man gawking at him until something snapped. "Yes, England." What kind of farce is this? A bad dream? He'll wake up eventually. Maybe he should try pinching himself.

The younger nation collapses onto an empty cushion on the sofa. "Arthur?" They both blink again.

"Yes, Arthur." He speaks slowly, purposefully. "Really, this is ridiculous, Alfred. Please, stop."

"Sat-Saturday? Wait." America's voice still sounds small and uncertain, but sense seems to catch up with him, at last. "Ar-Arthur…It's not Saturday."

"Well, of course it's Saturday."

"No." America sounds as sure of himself as he has been since their phone call. "Here," he pulls his phone from his pocket. "It's Sunday."

England sighs and looks at the date displayed in the background. "Sunday? It's Sunday?"

"Arth-Ar…England. Wh-what happened to you?" America looks away, and England finally realizes that America has averted his gaze through most of their conversation thus far—except while he was shaking him.

He wants to insist that he look at him now, but can't force him to demand that.

"I-I'm fine, Alfred. I mean, other than falling down the stairs. I'll be just fine."

"But, how…what? You look like. You look…?" The words break down into muttering and England can't understand him anymore; the words sound like static.

"Alfred, you're not making sense."

"'Cause this doesn't make sense!" America gestures at England, waving his arms.

"Now come with me upstairs and we'll both go to bed. I know how you get when you're jet-lagged—"

America straightens, the former annoyance returning to his eyes. "Jet lag doesn't cause hallucinations, England!"

"Hallucinations? What are you talking about?"

America looks at him now, and he notices how far down his head must tilt. England looks up at him, farther than usual. Slowly, he rises, teetering slightly as he straightens; his balance is still all wrong. America quickly steadies him, hand at his waist, but pulls it away as though he has been burned, and his cheeks pink.

"What is the matter with you, Alfred? Now come on." He reaches down and pulls on his arms, watching small hands unable to wrap around thick biceps that are larger than they used to feel. Small hands, unrecognizable hands, though they still carry all his scars. He squeezes; those hands are his. He steps away, and lands on the couch with an _oof_.

He stares up at America. For a moment, the clock stops ticking and America forms soundless words. The sounds catch up with him as England stumbles to his feet and trips up the stairs, because walking, running, moving is so strange, like something is missing and something is there that shouldn't be, and everything is all wrong.

"England why do you look like a girl?" America's question echoes in his ears as he stares into the bathroom mirror. America is right. England grapples at the door with a scream, slamming the offending image behind him to be forgotten. The door at his back cracks only slight as he falls against it; he slides to the floor.

It cannot be so easily forgotten. His center of balance. His voice. His hands. He does not just look like a girl; he is a girl.

* * *

"E-England?" America still sounds miffed, definitely confused and concerned. He taps on the bedroom door, with his strength it rattles the knob, causing England to flinch and hug himself. "Can…can I come in?"

England stares at the door. He is surprised that tactless questions about his mental well-being didn't find its way off America's tongue.

"Please?"

He pulls his legs close and hugs them, and swallows hard, but still cannot reply. England leans back against the bathroom door and stares blindly at a spot on the rug in the general direction of the bedroom door. Everything is too hazy and strange, including the way the room blurs and how his thighs bulge against her shins and how her hair falls across his shoulders and into his face. In the wake of such peculiarities that he-she-he can't yet process, England presses his face against the knees of his pajamas, unable to will himself to speak.

He screams as the bedroom door slams inward, the fittings of handle and lock mangled. "Alfred! What the hell?"

"I thought you had passed out or died or something!"

He stares up at him. "But you-! My door! What?"

"You didn't answer. I was worried." He stops at the doorway, contemplating whether or not he should kneel down to England's level, and she isn't sure that she likes the apprehensive frown on the other nation's face. America looks as lost as England feels, and she-he-she half wishes that he would bend down and just pick her up and put her back in the bed, but that thought is wrong and vicious, and he shakes his head to be rid of it.

"It was only a few seconds!"

"It was five minutes!"

"You couldn't wait five minutes?"

"I did. I even gave you plenty of warnings that I was gonna break the door down and you never said anything."

"But I. You!" England scowls.

"I did. That's why I was so worried. You'd've been all fussy and yelling if you heard I was thinking of breaking down one of your doors. England," he grunts out a sigh. "Damn it, why didn't you say anything?!"

England tries hard not to pout. Normally, he wouldn't think twice about pursing his lips together, but wasn't sure how that would appear in this new form.

"Come on. At least get up off the floor?"

She promptly stares at her knees; at least those look normal covered up by pajama bottoms, except for the damp spots.

* * *

America stands at the foot of the bed, leaning bodily on one of its posts, keeping his distance.

"Alfred, go to bed before you fall asleep on your feet. I'll be fine." England sinks underneath the covers and leans against the pillows.

"But who did this to you? Or...was it something you did?" His reluctance in asking that question is evident.

"No," he growls, averting his gaze. "This was nothing I've done. I can assure you."

"Then, Ar…then what happened?" America cannot say his name. Or just will not?

"We will discuss this further in the morning. I have a terrible headache. And, you will as well if you don't waltz yourself right out of here, and make yourself at home in your bed that I just put fresh linens on yesterday afternoon." Still America remains at the bedside. "Go on! If you don't, so help me, Alfred, I will wallop you within an inch of your life, superpower or otherwise."

"Yeah…" He gives a pensive stare toward the other side of the bedroom for a long moment. Suddenly, he pushes himself off the bedpost. "See you in the morning, England."

"Goodnight, Alfred."

"I'll fix the door tomorrow." He pads across the room and props the door closed with hardly a sound and then his footsteps disappear down the hallway, except for the occasional squeak of the old wood flooring.

The room turns dark and quiet. England is sleepy, which is a surprise. His headache remains and serves only to muddle his thoughts, and make him feel lonely. As he settles down in bed, he wonders why he sent America away. He wishes he hadn't dismissed Alfred, while the other nation looked so pathetic, but he had no comfort to give. Alfred had stared so intently at the armchair across the room maybe he had wanted to stay despite his obvious discomfort—if only for the company. Best not feed the boy's hero complex; although the way his eyes light up when America can be of use makes his face look attractive. Where that thought came from, leaves England puzzled as sleep—and exhaustion—catches up with him. He rolls against her chest and grumbles a last time before sleep takes its hold.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed reading. If you noticed anything amiss that I might have passed over when I edited, please let me know. Stay tuned for the next chapter. I only have editing to do, so I hope it won't take me too long between updates.

Also! I am running a contest with this story. All the chapter titles are going to be based on songs. At the end of the story (the next to last chapter, actually), the first reviewer who correctly guesses all the song titles and original artist/band names will get to give me a request for a one-shot on a pairing and subject of their choosing. I'll put up a reminder when the time comes.

I love writing things for people. Most of my stories have been based on requests either from friends or the kink meme. I will, of course be posting the correct list of songs and artists, as well as the winner, with the final chapter. And, no, none of this means that I will hold chapters hostage if I don't get reviews. I couldn't do that. Only RL ever gets in the way of my writing, editing and posting schedules. Promise!


	2. 2 - If I Seem Edgy

Finally, chapter 2 is out!

Warning (which I mostly put up for my own protection) for discussion of period symptoms and the human body in passing reference for this chapter. Also for an OC of Northern Ireland, Katherine. She pays an important role, but won't show up in the story very often. Just wanted to let the readers know in advance, because some people don't like OC's.

* * *

**Chapter Two – Title: If I Seem Edgy**

A fitful sleep leaves England sluggish. Nothing makes sense. He postpones his morning shower—for some reason, it didn't seem like a good idea—and heads downstairs for a late morning cup of tea instead. Walking doesn't feel right, but he can't pinpoint the reason. He puts the kettle on, and waits at the kitchen table for the water to boil, eyes still heavy.

At least it is the weekend, the only time he sleeps this late is after a pub crawl, and he can't remember having anything alcoholic since Friday night. According to Alfred, it is Sunday. That's right! Alfred came last night. The prat can't even tell the time, and wakes people from their peaceful slumber.

"Hey!" Alfred grumbles from the hallway and shuffles across the kitchen to the stove. "Ar-England, aren't you gonna get your water? Geez..." He mutters something about burning water and beheadings. Surely, it hadn't been whistling for all that long. "…had no idea what the ruckus was."

England groans and slumps against the table. "Sorry."

"Ar-England, are you gonna be alright?" Alfred plops a tea bag into the cup ensconced in his hands, pulling it out of his grasp, and pours in the hot water leaving England to gauge the steeping time. They remain silent through the process, as well as the time it takes America's coffee to brew. "You wanna talk?" America sits down with his mug.

"What's there to talk about?"

His gawk sounds choked and painful. "You? And…and what happened. And why you're…like you are…because of…what ever happened." The boy cannot form proper words for the life if him, it seems. And can only gesture toward England as he struggles for his words.

"Alfred, what do you mean 'what happened?' I don't understand."

"You don't remember?"

"What's there to remember? Your little late night visit?"

He hums. "Yeah, okay, I'm real sorry about that. But, that's, um, not quite what I meant."

"I'm sorry if I'm not in the mood for riddles, Alfred, but I'm not feeling well." England avoids the critical stare from the other nation.

"That's understandable. You took a pretty nasty fall. And, might've gone back to bed with a concussion, which is _bad_. And, we should probably take a look at your head, and you're probably all bruised up. Um…" He sounds like an awkward teenager talking to a pretty girl—looks like one too with his glasses and bed hair.

But, at the same time, it's sweet. He shakes that thought from his mind, because he still receives that peculiar gaze. England looks away with a huff, and carefully removes the tea bag. "I'm just tired."

"Yeah, sure." America is unconvinced. "Wh-why… Shit." He works his jaw and as he draws in a deep breath, and his expression hardens, a show of his typical stubbornness. "I can't believe I have ask you again. England, why're you a woman?"

He recoils against the chair back, and it squeaks on the flooring. "A what?"

America's cheeks pinked. "Yeah, you know… all feminine…"

"You've said some horribly insulting things to me before, Alfred, but this must be one of the most absurd! How could you say such a malicious falsehood?!"

"Because it's true!" America jolts to his feet, the chair screeching against the tiles. He dashes across the kitchen and back in a blink, holding a large soup ladle to England's face. "Look at yourself."

He scowls at America, and then at the ladle. The features are all distorted and miniaturized, but a very attractive feminine face scowls back at him. It can't be true. The honey blonde hair trailing down his neck, brushing the tops of his shoulders, speaks otherwise. The full eyebrows are mostly unchanged as are the bright green eyes, but both seem more delicate—the word leaves a bad taste in his mind. There was a striking family resemblance. The line of his jaw, though smoother, was still the same general shape, as were his ears, which were usually hidden underneath his untameable hair.

England remembers to breathe, and pokes at his own rounded cheeks. "It can't be."

America says nothing, sits back in his chair, and lets England stew. How generous. The ladle soon clanks onto the table, and his hands make their own way between his legs, briefly, and toward his chest.

"Geez, England! Don't do that!" America's cheeks redden and he whips around so fast England things the nation might get whiplash.

He has parts missing where they should not be missing and parts added—enlarged—where they are not naturally so puffy. It is as though this is how he always was. But, that is so wrong. The aberrant pillows of fatty flesh underneath his pajama shirt are quite attached to him; his penis isn't.

"England?"

"I remember what happened."

He turns back around slowly. "Wanna share?"

"Might as well."

* * *

England huffed through the door of his London flat, pausing to scan the table in the entry as he toed off his shoes.

He muttered, patting down his jacket pockets twice over, and made his way toward the kitchen. "Blast! Where's my bloody mobile phone!" He searched the counter, kitchen table, and then dashed up the stairs. As he went, he mentally retraces his steps, and remembered his meeting that morning had been postponed an hour, so he took his morning tea in the ground floor guest room he had converted into a study.

He barreled into the room and stopped. The room was a mess: a discarded linen dress crumpled over his desk chair, a pair of well loved heels toed off near the door—he had almost tripped over them. His eyes scoured the room. A green hair ribbon lay in the middle of the floor near a partially opened weekend travel bag, as well loved as the shoes, and they matched. On the side table were half a biscuit and a half cup of cooling tea. Heavy breathing alerted him to the huddled figure on the couch, ensconced in one of his handmade blankets. Northern Ireland. She groaned.

The mound of quilting curled into the fetal position. "Must you think so loudly?"

He spoke to her back. "What happened in here?"

"Stopped for a kip," she sounded pained; her accent thicker than it usually was.

"I see that, but why?"

"Thought I'd visit on my way home from Wales's house?"

"Again, why?" Still, he spoke to her back.

"Just let me be." Her coppery curls shifted.

"North, I don't mind you staying here, really, but…"

Finally, she turned over to face him. "How generous…"

"But why make a mess of my study?"

"Thought it was a guest room. You moved the bed out."

"Yes, to make it a study."

"That's fine." She pulled the quilt back over her. "The couch is less lumpy anyway."

"Now see here!"

"I'd rather not, thanks." She turned over again.

"I still don't see why you had to make such a mess."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist. I'll clean up. Just not now."

"If you're in such need of rest you should get yourself to a proper bed."

"Really?" she mumbled into the pillow. "I couldn't make it up the stairs."

"You'd be better off. I could carry you, duck."

"Oh! Just leave me alone!"

"What's with you. Is it…that time?"

"Heh." The laugh was lackluster, "He can try to mention it, but he can't say it. Typical."

"No need to get miffed at me." He could have cursed himself for sounding so defensive.

"Miffed? Miffed!" She grunted and slowly rolled over to face him again.

"Just calm down, Kate, and I'll fetch you a fresh cup of tea."

"And now you're patronizing me, are you?"

"Now, now Kitty, calm down. I'm just trying to be kind."

"And, now I know you're just patronizing me."

"I am not!" He was going to be late getting back from lunch at this rate; he fought not to glance at the clock or his watch. "You're just in a…in a mood."

She rose from her little ball of quilting. "I'm in a mood!?"

"I don't know what else to call you being so snippy." He should have just done without his mobile phone and stayed at the meeting, but he was expecting a call from Alfred.

"I just want some peace."

"And I just want my study to stay tidy."

"I'll straighten up later." She cast a forlorn look at her tea cup.

"Ah, Kitty, have you, by chance, seen my mobile?"

"No." She lay back down, and pulled the blanket to her chin. "It's winter, Artie. Why do you have it so cold in your house?"

"Because I wasn't in it. Where's your phone? I want to try to call mine. The meeting will start back soon."

"Oh! Your precious meetings!"

"Yes, my precious meetings." He glanced from her dress to her bags.

"In my handbag on yer desk."

"Ah, yes, under your stockings." He lifted them with a pen and laid them over the top of her dress.

"So squeamish, you are."

"Girl, get up and clean this room."

She groaned. "Please, no. Not now, Art."

"Yes, now."

"But I hurt." It wasn't quite a whine, but it made him cringe with regret anyway.

He punched in his mobile number. "And I'm going to run late." He snatched up his phone where it rested on his desk, hidden by her other stocking, and answered and cancelled the call in one motion. "These are a bit old fashioned for a girl like you, aren't they?"

"Ugh, this is why I left Wales. But, at least he was a little more understanding." She hugged her pillow.

"I think I've been plenty understanding."

"I'll clean the room if you bring me some kind of pain killer. Any kind of pain killer."

"I'll grab the aspirn-"

"No! Anything but that!"

"You said any."

"Just not that one. My iron's low enough as it is."

"Fine, fine."

When he returned she had resumed her fetal position and the light groaning that he had initially mistaken for heavy breathing. He nudged her. "Katherine, here."

"Stop. Stop it."

"I barely touched you." He handed her the pills and the glass of water.

"Ugh, men…" She gulped down the pills, but made no move to rise.

"Kitty?"

"Look, Arthur, I feel like I've been stabbed, understand? I will pick up the wee bit of clutter that has you in a tizzy when I can move without jarring my insides."

"Katherine, don't be over-dramatic. I know you'll clean. You're almost as particular as I am." He just managed not to chuckle. She sent him an icy stare, and he took a step back. "Fine, I'm going. But, I'll be needing the use of my office when I return. I have to go. Feel better."

"Every man should have to go through this…a really good one. I wish you would." She mumbled as he dashed through the door and out of the house. He closed the door behind him as gently as he could in his haste.

* * *

"So, you think she cursed you or something?"

"Well, I didn't make it back home to do any work. Ireland took me out for a drink after that meeting."

"So, you're saying Pattie cursed you?"

"Don't let him hear you call him that." He pointed a warning finger at America. "But, no. Katherine likes silly little curses, but mixes them up with the big ones. Patrick never makes mistakes with magic. I don't really know what happened. I just know that this is a curse, and it's Kate's work. Now that I think about it, hers is the magic I feel."

"I don't know about you, but this seems like a pretty serious curse to me."

"That's because it is."

America stands and collects their cups to get seconds, reaching across the table to pull England's closer. He pauses and hums, lingering just beside him, his eyes closed. America's shoulders tighten, and he tries not to drop the cups. He is too close for too long, he suddenly realizes it. But it smells so good, standing by England, and he doesn't want to move. He doesn't drink tea much anymore, but still likes the way it smells. Likes the way it smells on England. He is mesmerized.

"Watch it." England nudges him, though his shoulders don't relax as he comes back to his senses with a shake of his head. "Wake up. Do you need more coffee or something?"

"Huh? I-I just spaced. Yeah, spaced. Was gonna get us both seconds anyway, though."

Still distracted by the fragrant aroma of bergamot, honey, petrichor, and something distinctively still England, but newly feminine, he glances back between England and refilling their drinks. He decides to make some oatmeal. Maybe it would settle their stomachs to have something simple in them. England looks just like he smells: subtly pleasant and strong underneath, still England, but pretty and less prickly. Although, he knows that despite the alterations to his appearance, it is still the same England staring back at him with concern. Still just as prickly despite appearances. He pauses, feeling England's eyes. He is caught staring, but cannot help himself. He is mesmerized.

"Stop that!" England grumbles, his back hitting the chair as America approaches, setting down their bowls and then turning to get their cups, England's tea should be ready now—he hopes. "You're staring, and I know I look horrid, but-"

"No!" America almost drops his coffee cup on the table, eyes wide and desperate. "You're-you're not."

"I look…all awkward."

"No." Katherine knew what she was doing with that curse; she must have, and America suddenly wishes that he believed in magic more, so he could curse her right back. England is a natural beauty. "You're…you're…"

"I'm what?" England's voice is dry; it pierces like his eyes—very attractive when angry, bright and full of life. America always wishes he would smile, though.

America feels every bit like the teenager he resembles, more awkward than his muscles credit him. "Really pretty." He cringes, because those aren't the words he wanted to use, and not the way he wanted to say them, all mumbled and scared. "And you smell nice." He cringes again. He wants his thoughts to stop spilling from his brain, or he would compliment other things his teenage mentality observes, and looks determinedly into the green of England's shiny eyes, even though they sting. No lower than the eyes. His hand tightens on his spoon.

England looks stricken. Neither says anything through breakfast.

* * *

England lurks by the stairwell, sitting on the top step and leaning back against the wall, watching America fix the bedroom door. He can't think of why he felt so compelled to observe. He had wanted to put forth an offer to accompany him to the store for supplies, but couldn't seem to shape the words without the sound coming out all squeaky. Could only watch him from afar. Could hardly keep his mind on anything, because everything seemed so different now. And, now he could only watch as Alfred bent, staring down old metal fittings, trying to make them fit with the newer ones he purchased at the store. The broad plans of his back tense as he works.

He wishes that he had taken the chance to watch America work his wonders with repairs of the door itself, but he had completed that portion of the job outside and didn't want to peer out at him from the window. Alfred was always dexterous, a craftsman of natural talent. They are mesmerizing, those nimble fingers. England cannot think of the last time he has watched America concentrate so long and so hard about anything in years. He realizes, he cannot think of the last time he has paid this much attention to America in even longer than that, even though they have their periodic friendly chats after various nation meetings.

Alfred had his hair trimmed shortly before his visit, only the strand of Nantucket strays when he combs his finger through his hair, a nervous habit. His eyes still narrow when he concentrates, but his face remains relaxed and boyish. Some things don't change. He still crosses his legs the way young children do; it does not make him appear young, but youthful and unexpectedly flexible. Alfred still bites his nails, but only when nervous, and does so as he looks for a screw that rolled a few feet while he examined the holes he had pre-screwed in the wood.

When America sets the knob down and reaches for the wayward screw, England hums at the graceful way his muscles stretch. The sound alerts him, and he looks up from his search. He doesn't seem surprised to find England watching. He smiles. His skills in espionage are usually an equal match for America. But, England is spotted—was not hidden in the first place, like he had thought—and dashes back down the stairs to the refuge of his study.

Paperwork has no messy emotions to respond in turn. The pile on his desk will not do itself, regardless. And, he has misplaced his laptop among his papers. And, he really should dust the bookshelves. And, the list is endless. There is too much to do and not enough time in which to do it.

They make their way through the day separately, joining back in the kitchen at midday to eat in silence at lunch time and for dinner. They barely speaking a word to each other through the course of the day. The only words uttered are of quick thanks to America for fixing the bedroom door and their meals. England holes up in his study, atypical for a Sunday, and the rest of the day passes in a blur.

* * *

**Author Notes:**

Again, sorry it took me so long to get this chapter up. I was in Europe for two weeks! It was an awesome trip (Germany, Austria, Italy (Rome), and France). Huge delays will not be the case for the rest of the story, I hope. It really throws me off, even though I'm only editing.

For anyone who's interested, don't forget the contest I'm running with this fic. All the chapter titles are going to be based on songs. At the end of the story (the next to last chapter), the first reviewer who correctly guesses all the song titles and original artist/band names can give me a request for a one-shot on a pairing and subject of their choosing.


	3. Like You Wanna Be Someone Else

Aaaand, have Chapter 3! Even sooner than I had planned. Because life decided to be nifty like that. Yay!

Obligatory warning time, this time for some language and mentions of OC characters, Scotland (Liam) and Wales (Dylan).

Sorry about the pronoun switches, I'm just trying to portray England's confusion-thoroughly. I agonised over the placement of each one and spent more time choosing, checking and double and triple-checking pronoun use than I did writing the chapter and editing combined. If you're still confused please, _please_ let me know so I can go back and fix it.

* * *

**Bring Me Chocolate Biscuits Please**

**Chapter 3 – You Walk Around Here Like You Wanna Be Someone Else **(complete chapter title)**  
**

Sometime during the course of Monday, England's identity crisis turns troubling and distracting. Perhaps it is the pull of his shirts or the way his trousers slouch in the waist and pool at the ankles. Maybe it is the fact that the desk chair isn't as comfortable as it should be or the way _his_ arms bump against _her_ chest and the way _he_ crosses _her_ legs.

Argh!

No, no, no! No!

Possibly, it occurred whenever he had to use the toilet. Or, all of the reasons combined that scream at him when England stands by the sink to rinse out their dishes and turns to face Alfred's throat instead of the tip of his nose and send her running out of the room.

Whatever the reason, _she_ cannot get any more work done with thoughts of identity chasing tail around _his_ mind. It's hard, because England is not a woman deep down inside and all of these alterations—these aberrations—he must live with make him want to scratch at her skin and pinch himself awake up.

This is for simplicity's sake and nothing else.

England sighs.

So, she finishes one last document and drags herself away from her desk on tiptoe, not wishing to bother Alfred on the couch, hunched and working on his laptop with papers spread all around him.

But she stops, starring at America as he works. After fixing the door, what had Alfred done yesterday?

She hates for him to feel so unnerved. Hates the distance between them and the way they haven't been lingering in each other's shadows as they normally do.

She retreats to the kitchen for a cup of tea and returns to her study with a guilty conscience. Alfred came to see her on one of his rare vacations. England had invited him; he asked his boss for extra time off between the G8 and World Meetings, since they were scheduled so close together—only a couple weeks apart.

What had Alfred done yesterday?

She sets down the glass of iced tea she brought him on the side table. "Alfred, why must you make such a mess?" She crosses her arms awkwardly over her chest, her button-down bunching and pulling. He does not look at her directly, hasn't since breakfast yesterday morning. She feels self-conscious as it is. She…it was so bizarre being a "she." He was not a she. Half the time, it was a struggle not to trip over her feet whenever England thought about it—and didn't want to think any more about using the toilet.

"We don't talk for a day, and now you go and fuss at me?" He pouts, and still does not look up.

"I can't believe you. Alfred, just look at this mess!" No that isn't right. Why is she fussing?! She huffs. "Look at me!"

"I can't do both at the same time, England."

She takes a good, hard look at America. "At me, then." He starts to lift his head toward her, but looks at the papers on the floor instead. "Look at me?" He makes no move to do as requested.

His neck shifts and his head lifts, but his gaze remains stubbornly lowered—how childish. "Alfred," she begins, but is distracted. There is a small line of red along the line of America's jaw. She manhandles his face to see what it is. "What the hell did you do to your jaw? Did you shave blind?"

"No." America's voice is strangely quiet and hesitant, and he dips his head out of her grasp. "It happens every time I'm shaving when your kettle goes off."

"Sorry." England pats at the condensation on the glass with her handkerchief and dabs at cuts. His face is still smooth, the skin soft, and discovers through a quick intake of breath that he uses a lightly musky after shave lotion. There is a matching cut on the other side of his face. "Twice? You cut yourself twice?"

He nods. "Yesterday morning and today. The thing startles me, okay?"

England giggles and America's cheeks pink in response. It's endearing. She nearly drops the handkerchief, because she finds that he looks cute and precious with the bit of extra coloring in his cheeks. "Ahem, well just be more careful. I can't do anything about it." She would make sure not to start her kettle while he's shaving, if that were possible.

"Ah, Alfred, what have you been up to while I've been so, ah, distracted?" she dabs at the last of his cuts, and sets the handkerchief aside.

"Working."

"You work on the weekends?"

"Yeah, some. When my boss bugs me. He did a lot yesterday afternoon. I was holed up in my room on my phone a lot yesterday."

"Oh."

"You don't have to go to the World Meeting tomorrow." America shuffles a few papers around.

"I- what?"

"I didn't tell you? Ugh! Of course, I didn't get to tell you." Once again, America evades eye contact and his words trip over each other. "But, yeah, I called your boss and said that you were sick, and to contact Scotland or someone to fill in for you. Or that I could take notes for you. But, England, I'll totally record the whole thing! Promise!"

She fights the urge to laugh. "Slow down, Alfred. Breathe."

"Sorry, Ar-England."

England decides that he should keeping track of the times that America avoids saying his human name.

"I'd really rather not miss the meeting, Alfred."

"You wanna go looking like a girl?"

"It isn't as though my magic was at fault."

"That's true enough."

"I thank you for your concern, but I won't let this get in the way of my job. I'm going, that's final."

"Okay, then, you call and cancel."

"What!? Fan-fucking-tastic. I can't believe that you already called." How responsible of him for a change. She leaves him on the couch, still staring at the floor, and fishes her mobile phone from under a stack of papers on the desk. It's time to send a few texts.

* * *

"I'm driving you there. No arguments.

"I can drive on the wrong side of the road, England."

"Absolutely not. You make my point for me."

"I'm sorry, that your boss had called Scotland for the meeting. I asked Wales. I did! Just let me drive."

"No. I'm sure you did, Alfred," England huffs. "I'm sure you did. I'd have been able to convince Dylan to forget it all. Liam is a different matter." She swallows the last of her tea. "Do they…do they happen to know about…?"

"No. Well, I didn't tell them anything. Just that you weren't feeling well."

"Good. I wonder the likelihood that Kitty told them." England takes their dishes to the sink.

"Slim to none. Dylan didn't even chuckle when I was talking to him. Wouldn't they, like, be all over a bad joke like this?"

"Quite." England breath caught in her throat. "Alfred…"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"What for?"

She sighs. He wouldn't make this easy. "For thinking of all this as a bad joke."

"Well, it is. You're really pretty and all, but it is."

She blushes and does not know how to respond to America's comment. "We should get going, so you make it to the meeting on time."

"I'll be early."

"Nothing wrong with that." And, anything to get out of the conversation.

"Ar-England…"

"Alfred, you can…can't you…just. Just call me by my name!"

"But, but that's weird, Ar-Arthur! It doesn't suit you anymore."

That's true enough, but still. "It's my name!" She turns toward him, as she wiggles into her shoes. Alfred cringes at the exclamation. "What name, pray tell, would better suit me?"

"I don't know, but Arthur doesn't." He forces his feet in his shoes with a huff, and shoulders his laptop bag. "Rose? I don't know!"

"Rose?" The name tickles England fancy, making her laugh before she realizes why. "You've thought about this."

"Yeah, 'cause your pretty…like a rose. And prickly," he adds a little too quickly and holds the door open for her.

England is surprised that he had ever been enough of an influence to gift him with such gentlemanly manners…or maybe it is what one of America's superheroes would do?

"You're sweet and flighty." She decides not to mention the other thoughts that plague her mind. America grins, and that makes her happy enough. He does not get the car door for her, but it might be because of her insistence on driving. Once he gets settled, she starts the car, and resolves to end the name problem. "How about Rosalind?" She wonders if he knows she also made a joke, but it is a name she can live with in any case.

"Can I call you Rosa?"

She sighs, of course he would resort to a nickname and miss the joke all in one go. "Yes," she keeps her gaze fixed on the busy streets ahead, "I suppose."

She likes this, whatever _this_ is, between them. It is comfortable again.

* * *

England returns home after dropping America off at the convention center, poking around the house, tidying rooms that don't need attention. She tries a spell and potion or two, or two dozen, that come to naught and only leaves her feeling ill, depressed and contemplating calling Northern Ireland for the counter-curse. She knows that wouldn't go well, at all. She wanders into the kitchen to make some scones…maybe being a woman will help his cooking skills. Deep down England knows that's hogwash. It doesn't matter; her stomach feels all twisted into knots, so she heads up stairs for a short nap instead.

She is stirred by her mobile. "Hello, Alfred."

"Where are you? Weren't we were gonna go to lunch?"

"I'm afraid I'm not really feeling up to it."

"Are you all right?" If she didn't know better, he sounds hurt and half-panicked, perhaps he is.

"I'm fine, just tried a few cures for this curse. They left my stomach unsettled."

"Oh, okay." He is disappointed, and that makes her feel disappointed.

"We can have dinner out tonight instead?"

"Okay! You can pick anywhere." Just like a little boy, so easily disappointed and excited again. "You should go shopping and get something nice. Give me the receipts later, and I'll take care of it."

The confidence with which he said those words suggests that he spent a great deal of the meeting thinking about her. Thinking about England as female? She resolves not to think too much about that. And, she wouldn't have to suffer through McDonald's.

"Very well, Alfred. I'll see you later."

"Bye, England!" America clears his throat and lowers his voice. "Bye Rosa." And the line goes dead.

* * *

"I'm real sorry, England!"

"Sorry about what, Alfred?" She pauses, her dress still open in the back. She was tired of fiddling with the zipper anyway.

"Canada is here and saying that we all had plans for dinner, and his boss planned a meeting for us and- and-"

"Alfred, are you standing me up?"

"What?! No!" America whines, loudly, and England hears a muffled voice on the other end; it is probably Canada. "I'd like for you to go."

"Good, because I'm half-dressed now."

He makes a strange, strangled little wheezing sound. "But, do you want people to see you like you are?"

"I thought you told me I was pretty?" She cringes, because she is sure that was a very girly thing to say, and has nothing to do with what Alfred was really asking. "I don't mean that. And, and I know what you meant. No, I don't really, but maybe Canada would be okay?"

"That's totally up to you." A very adult thing to say and she is surprised.

"I, um, I…Go ahead and have dinner with Matthew. Tell him I say 'hello', will you?"

"Sure thing, England. Keep getting better, okay," he says for Canada's benefit; no doubt he is listening to Alfred's half of the conversation. "And, keep Rosa company for me."

The dress she had planned to wear reminded her of Alfred's eyes, sky blue. _He_ didn't really want to wear it, didn't feel comfortable in a dress. So, she slips it off and puts it away with the couple of others she bought that afternoon—what an awkward shopping trip that was. _He_ had no business in those sections of stores. (Underwear shopping will plague England for the rest of his days.) Instead, she pulls out the new pajamas she bought. They fit, even look like his old favorites, a nice dark blue plaid pattern, and they don't hang baggy off of her curves like a sack.

* * *

England falls asleep with a book by the fireplace, and wakes in her bed in the morning to an empty house. She assumes it is empty, after wandering past America's bedroom on her way to her morning cup of tea. Absent are his light snores; the house is silent. He left for the second day of the meeting without saying good-bye; how rude.

She bundles up and spends the morning in the back garden, neglecting her work, even though it is a Wednesday.

She drags herself back inside for lunch, and holes up in her study again, her fax machine and email overflowing with neglected work.

Alfred does not return for dinner. She knows she should have called him hours ago, so she rings him now.

"Yeah?" He shouts into his receiver over blaring background noise.

"Alfred, is everything okay? What's going on?"

"Canada and Neddy dragged me out for drinks after the meeting." The background noise confirms this.

"I really wish you would have called me."

"Sorry, Rosa."

"Who is Rosa anyway?" He hears another voice on the other side of the line—Canada.

"My-my…my friend!" Alfred answers him.

"Your…your what?" This new voice sounds a lot like the Netherlands.

"A girl friend, Alfred?" Canada again.

"What kind of friend do you have who—ow!" The voice is cut off, leaving England wondering what who-ever-it-was might have said. Alfred has moved somewhere quieter, the sounds of wherever-he-was now sound muffled and distant.

"I'm really, really sorry, England."

"Fuck off! You forget about me, neglect to inform me of your plans, and then have to gall to—. You know what!? I-I don't fucking care! Do whatever you want, Alfred!"

"Wait! I'll make it up to you tomorrow."

"Don't bother!" England feels belittled and appalled. Her anger festers at the slight. "I loath you."

"Don't be like that. I really wanted to take you out. But…Look, I'm sorry! I really…"

"It doesn't matter! I can't tell you don't care about me in the least."

"What? No! That's not true!"

"I don't know if I believe you, Alfred." America had seemed so sincere, and hadn't really treated England any differently thus far. He had only acted scared and nervous. But, he forgot. Just forgot? England couldn't understand.

"Well, fine then. Sorry anyway." He still sounds skittish and unsure.

They really were friends, very good friends. They had the Special Relationship.

This is all overwhelming, and she feels more than a little silly; England is supposed to be both sick and taking care of himself—being both Arthur and Rosalind. It is confusing being two people and the same person mentally—and all these machinations to conceal the curse on top of it all are trying _his _patience. And, he is flustered about not being at the meeting. It isn't completely Alfred's fault. He has been so helpful. Everything was so confusing. It made her head hurt. Who could think like this?

"Wait, Alfred I …"But, she realizes that Alfred has already ended the call. "I'm sorry…" She was going to apologize for her rash words. This kind of think always happened to them, The abrupt ending of their conversation adds to her regret, and in her sudden melancholy.

England goes to bed early.

* * *

**Author Notes:**

Rosalind, my name for fem!England, comes from the name for the female lead in Shakespeare's "As You Like It," a girl pretending to be a guy, who teaches a few of the characters some seriously awesome lessons about life and love. If you have not experienced this play (either reading or watching it) I recommend you give it a chance. The way Shakespeare portrayed this character is seriously ahead of its time. She is such a feminist! I love her!

I'm not such a huge fan of the nyotalia fem!England design. That's not how I see her in my mind. I don't know what it is exactly that I do picture, but the glasses and pig tails aren't it. Someone help me! But, I don't think there is any help for me. *sigh*

It is my headcanon that England is not a morning person.

Don't forget the contest. All the chapter titles are based on songs (this one was a challenge and then the whole title for chapter 3 was too many characters, drat). At the end of the story (the next to last chapter), the first reviewer who correctly guesses all the song titles and original artist/band names can give me a request for a one-shot on a pairing and subject/prompt of their choice. (Hey, in addition to USUK, I've done fics for Americest, Germancest, Canada/Belgium and Denmark/Norway, so I'm game for a challenge, even some rare pairs. I'll try not to say no to anything, but if it's something I don't think I'd be able to do justice with at all I will let you know. But, I can't think of anything, just know that FrUk or RusAme would probably be the biggest challenges for me of any other pairing I can think of. Just letting people know).

If you have comments or questions about this fic, review! I love reviews. If you wanna ask anything else or chat or something, I have a tumblr account, irisoflunadreams . tumblr . com I also post updates for new stories and stuff (mostly I reblog). Check it out if you want; if not, that's okay, you're awesome anyway. All my readers are awesome. :)

Altogether, this is probably going to be around 10 chapters...I think. It depends on how the different parts I posted from the kink meme form together in actual chapters as I go back through them.


	4. Dancing Through the Fire

**Sorry about the long wait. I've had a lot going on. I thought that I could establish a regular update schedule, but haven't been able to manage. I will get this all finished eventually.**

**Anyway, Canada and Prussia make an appearance this chapter, and be prepared for some brief PruUk. **

* * *

**Chapter 4 – Dancing Through the Fire**

England awakens to a rainbow of fifteen thornless roses—pink, red, white, yellow—and a tea pot and cup on the bedside table. A simple unsigned note of "I'm sorry," hangs from a rose stem; no signature is needed, the careful, but poor penmanship speaks for itself. The tea is warm, and tastes palatable enough to sip. She smiles, and feels at ease.

The house is empty once again. Through the morning, England finds herself carrying the vase of roses along with her as she goes from room to room. They are not from her garden, because it is winter and most of her roses are multi-hued and these are all solid colors. They are still lovely, and make her feel a little less lonely.

Maybe Alfred knows more about the meaning of the name she chose for herself after all, and remembers the floriography trend of a century and a half ago but, then again, Alfred has always liked roses, too.

Around mid-morning, her mobile rings. It is America, she can tell by the ringtone, and must dash around to answer in time. It is in the kitchen next to the tea pot.

"Everything okay, England?"

She catches her breath. "Yes, just misplaced my mobile. What is it?"

"Didn't want to call too early."

"It's the middle of the week, Alfred."

"Haha, right." He clears his throat and proceeds so quickly that she is unable to remark on his quip about her sleeping habits. "So the tea was still hot?"

"Yes, the tea was warm."

"Whew! I was worried it would get cold, and then you'd be mad at me all over again for wasting tea or something."

"I'm not mad. I'm sorry I got angry with you last night."

"Nah, I was a dick. Mattie told me." So the roses were Matthew's idea., she sighed. "But, the roses were my idea. He said to make you breakfast in bed, but then my boss told me that we were meeting early with Mattie's boss again, and that wouldn't work so I-"

Alfred would babble indefinitely if not stopped. "Yes. Thank you, Alfred. The roses were lovely." She stroked the stem of a yellow blossom lightly with her knuckles.

"Just wanted to make sure you weren't still mad. I mean, I like that we're talking again."

"I do as well. I will see you later, won't I?"

"Yes. Mine and Mattie's bosses are heading home after lunch."

"So, I'll see you soon."

"Yep!"

* * *

They go out for dinner. Alfred seemed to like the dresses she bought the other day —even though England still can't quite bring himself to wear one out of the house—and demands the receipts from the purchases, put up a fuss until she acquiesced.

He emails a copy of the recorded meetings for England to try and find the time to listen to. She manages to scan a copy of his notes when she convinces him that she really can read his handwriting after so many years of complaining otherwise, although it is a challenge.

They spend time together as they had planned, since America is on vacation now, though alternating between fun and work. Alfred continues to treat her the same way he did before the curse. For that she is very grateful, and tells him so, but she notices the continued discomfort in his eyes and the way he hesitates when they are close. They played that game sometimes; though friends now for years, some things were hard to overcome.

When Alfred chose to work—a web-conference with his boss or secretary—she makes her way down to her basement to attempt breaking the curse again, but gives up after a few more futile attempts. She finds nothing; there is no use in wasting the time and continually making herself ill from the effort.

Alfred takes her out to dinner night after night, and she feels rather pampered. He never even suggests that it is to keep her out of the kitchen. They almost feel like dates, but she manages to wrest the bill from his hands a few times. Around a week after the absentee incident, Matthew shows up again with Gilbert in tow and an invitation for a night out on them—which really means on Matthew.

* * *

"Alfred, I don't want to go out. I don't have anything appropriate to wear like this."

"You wanna get something appropriate for a place Gilbert would drag us to? And, who knows what that might be." Alfred's brows furrow and he frowns. "You really wanna go shopping again?"

"Well, no." She swallows hard, remembering her previous experience. "I don't know."

He rubs at the back of his neck. "Wear whatever you want, Rosie."

"Do not call me that, git."

"Sure, sure." He squeezes her arm; the touch is unexpected but not unwelcome. "Hey! I know! I'll take us shopping. Get us both something new."

She reaches up and strokes his cheek, and is surprised at the shadow of light, coarse stubble on his chin and jaw line. He has not yet shaved and it feels like he didn't yesterday or the day before either. "Shouldn't you go shave before we leave?" she says, but it looks oddly nice on him and she almost regrets her comment. It makes him look oddly rugged; it would make Canada look shifty, like France—with their long hair—it makes Alfred look gallant and charming. Suddenly, she is surprised at their easy touches; they are nice, comforting.

"It's only shopping."

* * *

Arthur has been clubbing before, so he knows the standard attire for the occasion: band t-shirts, leather, boots, jackets. He has a special wardrobe for fitting into the scene. As Rosalind, he is inherently more uncomfortable with the clothes he remembers seeing girls wear on his nights out. At least, as Rosalind, she can still wear the boots with some thick socks, and her chest size prevents her favorite leather jacket from being too baggy. It is the pull of the band t-shirt across her chest and the fit of the skinny black trousers the salesgirl selected for her that bother her so much, and she could just curse the powers that be for separating her from Alfred in the store. Those two salesgirls must have been conspiring against them. It was as though, suddenly, clothes didn't feel right anymore. Everything was too tight and made her feel like a balloon. The trousers might as well have been painted on; with her new curves she feels uncomfortably on display. She found a new Trilby for her worries, but it does little to make up for the distress of being a guinea pig.

* * *

From upstairs, she hears Matthew and Gilbert arguing when Alfred answers the door. They are more than thirty minutes late—no doubt Gilbert's fault.

"Hey Freddo, why're we picking you up from Eyebrow's house?" England bristles at Prussia's voice and scowls at the mirror as she does finishing touches on her eyeliner. "Not awesome. He's not coming to spoil our little party, is he?"

England knows that Prussia knows that _Arthur_ knows how to let loose and party, but won't say anything about the slight. No need to endanger their ploy before the night begins. She pauses at the top of the staircase to hear Alfred's answer.

"Nah, um," America leaves an awkward pause, "England's not feeling so great. I told you I was bringing my friend."

Canada chuckles. "Right, Alfred, your friend…"

"That's what this sudden night out is for? For me to prove that I didn't make her up. Isn't it?"

Neither Canada nor Prussia responds.

"So where is Arthur?" Canada asks, and sounds like he's trying to trick America.

"Upstairs." Alfred doesn't have to lie. "He isn't coming." The convenient omission is an irony that makes England laugh as she finally descends the stairs. "But this is Rosalind."

Wearing such tight trousers, as a woman, feels so strange; England pulls her leather jacket close to keep from squirming. All eyes are on her. Suddenly, she feels empowered by their enraptured attention, and laps it up, slinking downstairs with all the finesse of a lioness on the prowl.

Her attention strays to America. Alfred's smile is the most genuine and the most surprised; the outsides of his eyes crinkle and his cheeks redden. He offers her his hand, but she doesn't take it, sidetracked by Prussia's wolf-whistling; Canada elbows him in the side.

"Ello," she smiles at America and Canada, and scowls at Prussia. "You must be Matthew." She turns her attention back to the Canadian.

"Yes. You…you look familiar." Canada's eyes do a quick double-take between her and a photograph of England and America on display in a curio cabinet. "Are you a nation or something?"

She glances at America a moment, wondering how she should play this, and is distracted by the stubble still present on his jaw, chin, and cheeks.

"Or something…Canada." She smiles at Alfred, her eyes holding his captive.

Alfred's cheeks redden further and he rubs his palms over his tight black jeans. His breath hitches, and she can tell he is fighting the urge to fidget by the way he rocks on his toes.

Prussia laughs and wraps an arm around her waist.

"Hands off, twat face!" So much for being a lady. Prussia does that to people, and the moment is broken.

America laughs and punches Prussia in the shoulder just hard enough to move him a couple steps away from England, and he rubs at the spot.

Canada chuckles, glancing at America. Matthew's doubt is evident, even to Alfred.

"Ow." Prussia whines, taking a step back, almost cowering behind Canada.

America and England share a knowing glace, and he offers her his arm once again; they dash out the door after the other two nations.

* * *

The nightclub is classier than she expected, an old fashioned jazz club. Still bouncing with energy, but the music isn't quite as loud as those England frequents with Prussia and Denmark. She gets few chances to dance with Alfred during the night. Canada steals her away for questioning during their first attempt; she easily evades answering due to the noise and a random bloke cuts in to end the confused inquiry. During her second dance with Alfred, Canada steels America away, he says, for a brotherly chat. And that is that.

She wanders back to the bar, and signals for the bartender. He is occupied, unfortunately, with a tall, leggy girl at the end. She's very pretty, and England can understand why the man allows himself to be distracted from his job. Still, she sighs.

"Why is Alfred's birdie by herself? May I join you? No one should have to drink alone," Prussia smiles as he perches on the bar stool next to her. She looks away, so he doesn't see how her cheeks redden.

England still isn't sure how to respond. But she welcomes the company, at least from someone she knows.

"Hello, Gilbert." She finally musters the courage to face him. "I'm not Alfred's 'bird'."

"The awesome me can keep you company."

"Very well." She sighs again. "I can't imagine what's keeping Alfred and Matthew."

"Never mind them. Let's have fun."

"Sure, I've nothing better to do."

Prussia acquires a table and buys her another drink. After a conversation revolving around glamorized stories of Prussia's "awesome" exploits—England knows the true stories, and they aren't all so grandiose—he pulls her out on the dance floor. The first dance is fun; he twirls her across the floor. Prussia was always a good dancer, with footwork of military precision. She laughs when he twirls her around, unaccustomed to the head rush of not leading. They have both had untold hours of practice at various ballroom dances and with dance partners at social events through their long existence. Dancing is simpler than politics, as easy as warfare, comparable to international relations. There is a reason they compare it to the naturalness of sex.

"You know, you have very nice eyes," Prussia smiles, all teeth and pink-red eyes, as he pulls her closer.

She smiles and he dips her and they twirl. "Thank you."

However fun it is, it feels wrong being in his arms. Gilbert and Alfred are the same height, but their builds are quite different. Alfred is just a bit broader through the shoulders and chest—his voice a bit deeper, his hands larger. Even their smell! Alfred smells clean and mellow and natural. Whatever soap Prussia had used smells cloyingly sweet like he had been rubbing against Francis, smoky and sweaty and acrid.

When had everything about Alfred become comfortable?

For their second dance, the music tempo slows, and Prussia gets chummy with England's curves. He's practically an octopus. How could she have forgotten that?!

Would Alfred have done this? Gotten so bold in his movements? She isn't sure that she would mind so much if it was Alfred. Alfred would probably even have asked, semi-prudish man-boy that he is. Or just tripped over himself. His natural awkwardness is adorable.

But here, now, with the music _thrumming_in her ears, through her stomach, she feels nauseated. She turns her back to Prussia—a mistake. He cackles and presses against her—so close she can feel his stomach, even his groin—grinds against her backside. It makes her feel cheap. His laugh sounds like anailing chicken. His hands caress her chest, run down her stomach, across her hips, grope her thighs. England has done this with girls before. Most seemed to have enjoyed it, tittered or flirted back. But, this feels so different. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome. Her skin recoils at his touch, and she bats his hands away. They return a few beats later, more persistent.

"Get off, Gilbert!" She pulls away.

"Oh! You're spunky."

"Spunky? I'll show you spunky if you don't keep your hands to yourself."

"What're you? A prude?"

If Prussia realized who he was talking to, he never would have said that. England has never been a prude.

"Keep your hands off me, Prussia! I'm a-ah. I'm a lady!" And, the admission makes England's cheeks burn anew.

"Of course you are, gorgeous. All woman." He loops his arms around her waist and pulls her close to move with the music—something he does with women all the time—and grabs her behind.

She screeches, attracting attention. "Get off me, Gilbert!" She growls and head-butts him.

"Shit! That hurt! But, I like a girl with fight in her." He swirls her back into his grip.

"You aren't at all ashamed that you're hitting on someone else's date, are you?"

"You said you weren't Alfred's bird." She cannot respond to that, and he takes advantage of her silence. "And, you've been dancing with me."

"Against my will."

"Not a first."

"Let me go!"

She sees America out of the corner of her eye, shouldering his way through the crowd of people from the entrance of the club. Prussia is still too busying being handsy to notice his approach.

"You don't get it, do you?"

"That you're hot stuff?"

"No." She smirks. "That you are a hairy-arsed gobshite with a girly face. And, I wouldn't give you the time of day if you were the only man to give it to."

"Hey, that was harsh." His hand still lingers on her hips.

"England, are you alr-" Alfred calls out.

"Do you really not get the message? Here, fuck head." She barely notices Alfred as she rears her arm back and they both move to punch him at the same time. But, Alfred clutches her against him with one hand and, with the other, he punches. Hard. Gilbert stumbles to the floor, cradling his jaw.

"England?" Canada whispers to her immediate right, studying England closely.

"England?!" Prussia mumbles in pain, his brow furrowed.

Now they know.

She stares at Alfred, wide-eyed, and starts crying, when his strong arms wrap around her and he holds her to his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

England didn't want anyone to find out. The confrontation with Gilbert was unexpected, and disconcerting. England doesn't like being a woman. Doesn't like the vulnerable feeling of certain unfamiliar body parts being fondled without her consent. Doesn't know that anyone else knows. Mostly, she doesn't know why she's suddenly so angry, so scared. So emotional. Can't think. All she wants to do is cry. Has she just set back the woman's movement thirty years in thirty seconds?

Alfred's arms shield her from everything, for now. He's so big, and his arms feel secure. But, as Arthur, he doesn't want that, wiggles out of the embrace and runs, eyes full of tears that refuse to be held back. It is all so frustratingly hard to bear!

She doesn't remember how she finds herself in her foyer, and in Alfred's arms again. He combs his cool fingers through her hair and down to caress her cheek. She tilts her head to rub their cheeks together, and delights in the loud sound of Alfred's nervous gulps.

Why did she do that?

Is it because England misses the feel of the stubble that once covered his own cheeks, on occasion, or Alfred's mesmerizing smell? Apple pie, coffee, clay, oranges, pine trees. She likes the way his stubble rubs against her cheek. So calming.

But, for reasons she can't determine, she just feels like being miserable right now. Once again, she slips from his embrace. Sniffling she dashes to the bathroom, but he's quick and catches her before she even reaches the staircase. He encases her in his arms again. How does he keep doing that?

"Are you alright?" he whispers in her ear.

"Better now."

"Sorry, I lost track of time talking to Matthew."

"But my boyfriend came to save me anyway," she mutters, and hides her face against his shoulder, shamefully allowing his shirt to dry her tears.

"What? You mean…?" Even with the sudden spark of happiness brightening the blue in his eyes, he still looks a bit like a lost puppy.

"Y-yes, why not." She doesn't know why she made the offer. For some reason, it feels right. The only thing that felt right during the whole day. "Will you be my boyfriend, Alfred?"

"I'd like that."

Finally.

* * *

**Author's note**

Floriography: the language of flowers (though it depends on the source, sometimes, as to what meanings you will find. I used the santamonicaflowers . com floriography page, primarily.  
yellow rose = friendship  
pink rose = beauty  
red rose = love  
white rose = I am worthy of you; spiritual love; Innocence and Purity; Secrecy and Silence  
thornless = love at first sight  
15 = I'm truly sorry  
So, in other words, Alfred is saying a heck of a lot, just through a bouquet of flowers.

I read few article a long time ago about how some women not on birth control react to different kinds of masculine characteristics at certain parts of their cycle, and that is partially what inspired the plot of this particular chapter. I just wanted to explore that. I wish I had the links, I would share them.

I hope you enjoyed. I'd love to hear what you think of it. I will get the next chapter up as soon as I can.


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